Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(35)
Found it, I text Ryder immediately.
My phone pings. Good. How are you feeling?
As bad as I deserve to. Sorry I was such a mess. Needed to blow off some steam.
You were fine, he writes back. Besides the vomiting. And the snoring. And your death grip on my arm all night.
“Such an asshole,” I mutter. Well, drunk goggles, and all.
Ouch, he responds. Touché.
He has to know how full of shit I am. I was practically scaling Mount Ryder this morning, chasing a stunning view. You don’t do that stone-cold sober with bedhead, puke breath, and a skank dress on after making a fool of yourself the night before unless you’re desperate for someone. He has to intuit this, right? That I’m despicably sexually attracted to him. Just sexually.
The way he was looking at me before I left, I’m thinking Ryder’s hurting for it as much as I am. And when he figures it out, when we have to acknowledge this animal, sextacular thing between us? Then what?
He texts again, breaking me from my thoughts.
Did you check your email?
No, I type. Why?
I’m going to murder my brother-in-law.
When I open my email and read what Professor MacCormack has to say for himself, I have to restrain myself from throwing my freshly recovered phone at the wall. If I survive this semester without having committed assault, it will be a Christmas break miracle.
“Your proposal is solid.” MacCormack paces his office, phone in hand, saying what I assume he’s texting to Ryder so he can follow. “Really, it’s good. My issue is this—I’m sensing a lot of tension between you two, and I can’t grade an unrealistic business model. Business partners need to be tight, trusting, on the same page. Now, take heart. You two aren’t the only pair I’m concerned about.”
Ryder death-grips his phone and sucks in a breath. He leans, elbows on his knees, and even with the beard, I can see a scowl tugging at his expression. His ball cap’s back on, tugged low. The lumberjack flannel stretches across his broad shoulders. Today it’s a classic black watch—hunter green and ink-black plaid. It’s dangerous-looking. A little sinister.
Every remotely erogenous part of my body, from my traitorously hard nipples to my aching choo-cha, voice their demand to be plundered by the plaid-wearing rogue.
Jeebus Christmas, I need to get a handle on myself.
I wiggle on my seat and fold my arms across my chest.
“I’m assigning you two a team-building day,” Mac says.
I sputter as my hands fly unhelpfully in the air. This can’t be real. It has to be a joke. Ensuring I’m tilted toward Ryder so he can read my lips, I say, “Are you serious, Mac?”
MacCormack nods fervently. “I need to see increased camaraderie, or when due date comes, I won’t be able to grade your project as a practicable business plan. This course is professionally oriented. It’s not theory. It’s application.”
“Okay, I get that, but—”
My phone dings, as does MacCormack’s.
In case you forgot, Willa’s a D-1 student athlete. She barely has time to sleep and eat meals, as it is, Aiden. We can’t go backpacking and bonding over sunsets. You’re being a dick.
I stifle a snort that dies off when MacCormack’s icy blue eyes land on mine. He swivels, throwing a finger at Ryder, then texts us both on his phone. I’m not your brother-in-law right now. I’m your hard-ass professor who’s here to tell you, figure it out. I need to see camaraderie. You two have more common interests than you think. He gives me a pointed look. So find some time to set aside classwork and bond. I’ll have you two back here individually to account for your experience.
Ryder’s eyes are burning holes into Mac’s head. Common interests? I mean what does Mac know of me beside the fact that I live and breathe soccer? Ryder’s never mentioned he played soccer if that’s what Mac’s implying.
MacCormack pushes off his desk and taps his watch, which is his version of Get the hell out of my office. He can hardly move us out of the room fast enough, shooing us like chickens from the coop. “You’ve got one week. Learn about each other, get on the same page, or your project’s in jeopardy, got it?”
Before either Ryder or I can answer, the door is slammed in our faces. Ryder pounds his fist once against the door, an angry twitch to his jaw telling me if he was using his words, he’d be ionizing the air.
A solitary thud answers. “Get over it. One week.”
My phone pings with a message from Ryder.
I told you. I’m going to kill him.
11
Willa
Playlist: “Billie Jean,” The Civil Wars
I wish I could say Ryder and I manage to convince Mac that he’s smoking some terrible human-resources-laced strain of hashish, but he proves unflappable and only gives us stony glances when we corner him after the next class.
Between Ryder’s course load, my studies, practice, and game schedule, then dashing over to the hospital in the evenings to see Mama, who looks a little perkier since that experimental drug got thrown in her pharmacopeia, we barely manage to keep up with assignments while pulling together a day to “bond.”
Ryder performs a magic trick and convinces Mac to give us an excused absence from class, seeing as it’s the only day with my practice and game schedule that we can make work. We agree to leave at nine in the morning for our day hike, but before that, Rooney and I traipse over to the practice fields early in the morning to pass the ball around and have some shots.